The Adventure of the Silver Hammer
by wellhoneydont
Summary: Loosely based on the Beatles' song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer".  Three people have been killed and left on their doorsteps. Holmes is having much trouble with the case, as there is little to no evidence. Contains slash.
1. Joanna Clarks

Finally I was back home; my own 221B Baker Street. I set my medical bag on the floor and sunk into the couch. Holmes wasn't home yet, and although I missed the man a bit, it had been a stressful day and I was glad to have a few moments to myself.

I chose a book from the bookshelf next to me and opened it, instantly immersed in the plot and the characters.

I hadn't been reading for more than half an hour before the door was thrown ajar and in strode Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Halloa, Watson!" he chattered.

"Hello, Sherlock! Where have you been?" I answered, looking up from my novel but not putting it away.

"Buying groceries," Sherlock said dully, holding up one bag. I could guess what it contained; tea leaves, milk, bread, and maybe a handful of cigars.

"Mmm, I see," I said. "There's a first time for everything, eh?"

Holmes glared at me, but it was with an air of humor.

"And what have you been up to, John?" He asked me, slowly making his way to stand by the couch.

"Reading, actually. This is quite good." I held up the book in my hands and went back to it. I read for a moment or two before I saw Holmes out of the corner of my eye relocating to a spot behind me. He waited for a moment; shy, something that was very rare with him and that I appreciated. Then he wrapped his arms around my figure, resting his head on my shoulder. My heart fluttered pleasantly. He was probably reading over my shoulder, too.

"Turn." he said into my ear.

"What?" I asked, hardly willing to leave the printed world.

"Turn." he repeated matter-of-factly. "The page."

I laughed a little in indignation."I'm the one reading this book, not you, Holmes!" I turned my face to his, and instantly realized how close our faces were.

"Well, my dear Watson, I started reading it as well. And I need you to turn the page."

I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

Sherlock fondled my torso with his long thin fingers. My heart picked up its pace considerably, but I tried not to show it.

"You can't stay mad at me." Sherlock laughed at my expense.

I finally put my book down, resigned. "Maybe I can't," I answered. I turned to look at him and was met by his smiling face. His grin was contagious, and I smiled, too. I kissed him on the mouth for a moment and broke away, running my hands through his hair before heading to the kitchen to make myself some tea.

"Would you like some, my friend?" I asked him.

"Why not?" He loved to answer with another question. His voice was muffled; he was in the other room, and his nose was probably already buried in my book. I rolled my eyes, but I smiled, too.

As I set to boiling some water and listening to the occasional turning of a page from Sherlock, I heard a doorbell from below, followed by footsteps on the stairs. A moment later an elderly woman showed her face, which was ridden with misery. Holmes and I put down our tea and novel and met her at the door. We shook her clammy hand and she introduced herself as Elizabeth Clarks.

"My dear Mrs. Clarks," my friend said. "What is the problem?"

"It's terrible," the woman said, hardly coherent. "My daughter was murdered."

Only because I knew Sherlock so well could I tell that his eyes had started to twinkle; it had been so long since we'd had a case and he was finally back in his element. "Well, miss, take a seat and tell us how this came about." He motioned her towards a chair and she gladly sunk into it.

She looked sadly at us for a moment before proceeding. "My darling Joanna… She was seventeen years of age. You know the age; I had finally allowed her to go to the theater with a boy she'd been talking about for years. James, that's his name. Good fellow, I met him. So did my husband. He was a perfect gentleman. Anyway, they went to the theater together, and were going to a fancy little place to have dinner afterward. When James came back, it was six o'clock, and we hadn't been expecting him for another two hours. He was all shaken up, so pale, shaking so bad. He told us that he had left Joanna in their seats at the theater while he went and purchased a playbill for her; oh, how she loved the theater. But when he came back, she was gone. He searched everywhere and couldn't find her. He asked everyone if they had seen her, and one woman said she had. That woman said she'd seen another man come and sit in the seat next to her, James' seat, and they talked for a moment before he took her away. She said Joanna didn't look happy. The second James told us, my husband and I stood up to go looking for her… but we didn't have to. She was lying in front of our doorstep, dead. No blood or anything, just a great bruise on the back of her neck and her collarbone." Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes.

Holmes stood and put his hand gently on the crying woman's shoulder. "No need to worry, ma'am. I'm on the case." Oh, I'd have to have a talk with my friend. He was very near laughing as he tried to comfort the woman and I'm sure that wouldn't do.

"And where do you live?" I cut in.

"236 Brewer Street. You will find me there." Holmes nodded his thanks.

The woman had one more thing to say. "Oh, and Mr. Holmes," she sniffed. "There have been two more like it. Two people other than Joanna were found with the same bruising, sitting on their doorsteps for their poor families to find."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up imploringly, daring her to go on. "Oh, yes?"

"Yes, sir. A school teacher and a police officer were the other victims."

Sherlock straightened and slapped his hands on his thighs merrily. "Well! I think we best get started, miss. Thank you for your time. I'm sure we'll find our man soon." I stood and ushered the woman out, embracing her tightly before she left. "I'm so sorry," I said in her ear. "She won't have died in vain." Elizabeth Clarks smiled at me, though her eyes were again teary, and descended the stairs.

Turning back, I slipped my arms through my coat. Holmes had already done so, and was gathering his materials. "To Brewer Street?" I prompted with a smirk.

"To Brewer Street!" Holmes shouted with a hearty grin, thrusting his fist triumphantly in the air.


	2. Herring Shoes

"My dear Watson, what do you think of this?"

I bent down next to the body and studied the bruise on the back of her neck, holding her hair back. I thought for a moment. "It could be from anything. A hammer, a baseball, a bottle. Who knows?"

"I think I do," said my friend. He bent down next to me, casually putting his arm around my shoulder. "And I think you do, too." I looked at him, puzzled. "Why, you said it!" He laughed. "In my career, and yours too, we have seen many a people killed by a hammer or club. Do you picture what those wounds looked like?"

I said I could picture them perfectly.

"Well, there you have it. The wounds from a club don't look anything like this; it is perfectly circular, therefor it must be from a hammer. A big one, by the looks of it. Made of a very dense and heavy material."

"So we have only to find someone walking down the street carrying a large hammer," I said sarcastically. "Do we have any other evidence?"

"So far… no." Holmes admitted. "Whoever this was is certainly a very clever man. He left no trace. No fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses." I could tell he was disturbed by this fact. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket and lit it, absentmindedly taking a pull on it. He stayed in this state of deep thought for a while before standing up, dejected. "Well, Watson," he said, putting his pipe away. "We'll have to find the families of the other two victims for more evidence. Come in, come in." He beckoned me to the Clarks' front door, where I knocked and where the door was immediately thrown open.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Clarks greeted us. "Um. How nice to see you. Come in, please."

"Thank you, Mr. Clarks, but that won't be necessary." My friend said politely. "We simply need the addresses of the other two victims of our hammer killer." The man's eyes widened at the phrase 'hammer killer', and I elbowed Holmes in the arm. A dead girl's father certainly didn't want to hear that.

"Oh. Of… of course." He said. "One moment, please. Step inside, do." We advanced over the threshold and waited next to the coats and hats for some minutes before the man of the Clarks house returned to us.

"The school teacher was found at 687 Alfred Street, the officer at 27 Pembroke Lane. I don't know of how much help it would be though, as all the evidence has been removed."

"It will still be of very much help," Holmes smiled. "Thank you very much." And we were on our way.

xXx

By the time I had climbed out of the chaise-cart at Alfred Street, my friend Holmes was already knocking on the door, rolling from the balls of his feet to his heels in very high spirits. I approached him just as the door was opened.

"How may I help you?" asked a boy of about 15 with shaggy brown hair and innocent eyes.

"Hello. I am detective Sherlock Holmes and this is my good friend and partner, Dr. John Watson. I understand one of the residents here was killed recently?"

The boy nodded sadly. "Yes. My mother."

"I'm sorry," I answered, showing sympathy before my friend could plow on callously. "May we speak to your father?" The boy nodded again and led us down the hall.

Sherlock was watching his feet the entire way. "My, my, I do love your shoes!" he exclaimed. "What kind are they?"

"Herring, sir," said the boy, lifting up his foot to show them off.

"Well," said my friend, grinning ridiculously. "I might just have to get myself a pair."

At the end of the hall, the boy opened a door that revealed a tall man with thinning hair sitting in a great chair before a desk, smoking a pipe. As he looked up at us he set his pipe down and stood to shake our hands.

"Charles Dowding. How can I help you?" He certainly seemed in good shape for someone who had just lost their wife.

"Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson. We came to inquire about your wife?" The man's face clouded over just a tad, but he had it covered and the smile plastered back on in a moment.

"Of course. Sit down." He motioned to two plush chairs and we sat down gratefully. "Where to begin?" he asked, more to himself than to us. He lit his pipe again; it seemed to comfort him as much as it aided my friend in thought. "My wife is a school teacher. She taught grade 9. She had stayed a little later than usual one day to speak with a student that was causing problems in her class. Then she just didn't come home, and my son and I got worried. It was five o'clock and she wasn't yet home; she was usually home around three, even when she had to stay late. I had finally resolved to go find her myself, but there was no need. As I walked out my door, there she was, lying on my doorstep, not a mark on her. Not a mark on her, of course, except the bruises."

"Yes, yes, we've been told of the bruising," Holmes said thoughtfully.

"Has anything come of the case?" Charles asked after a slight pause in which Holmes thought intently. The man had obviously heard of the other murders that had been committed in the same manner.

"Not yet, my friend," Sherlock answered. "I think that will be all for today. Thank you for your time. If we need you again, we will be sure to send you a wire. Would you mind if we had a look at your doorstep?" The man agreed to the otherwise odd question.

Out by the entrance of the house, Sherlock Holmes crouched, studying the ground for a moment or two before exclaiming, "Watson, look at this! We may be near the end of our case."


	3. She Was Something

I ran to catch up with my friend, completely breathless. He was now upon the third doorstep of the day, again ringing a doorbell. I reached him, out of breath, and spoke in exasperation. "By God, Holmes, why did we run?"

My friend grinned, a light in his eyes. "Oh, hush, Watson. It was only a few miles." He wrapped his free arm around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze and pushing his cheek against mine. I could feel him smiling against me and that shut me up for a moment.

The door before us opened and I pushed him off me, but not so fast that the woman in front of us didn't catch a glimpse of our embrace. Her eyebrows shot up and she looked at us strangely, but my friend was not affected. He thrust his hand happily at her and gave a polite smile, which immediately consoled her. Holmes definitely knew how to gain the confidence of a woman within a few moments.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself. "And this is Dr. Watson." I nodded and smiled awkwardly in assent.

"Would you mind if we had a look around?" my friend asked. The woman nodded quickly in compliance and opened the door wider for us to enter the house, but Sherlock simply bent down to inspect the doorway.

There was a welcome mat under our feet, and I removed it after concluding that there was no evidence to be found for it. Underneath was a pair of medium-sized footprints, barely recognizable, having been muddled by the mat. Sherlock nodded his head knowingly and stood up. He turned to the woman, who was still staring at him from the open door, and brushed his hands off on his handkerchief.

"Thank you very much, ma'am," he said. "That'll be all."

"Oh. Um.. That's all?" she asked, taken aback; seemingly not wanting us (or, more likely, Mr. Holmes) to leave just yet.

"Yes ma'am. My friend and I will be on our way now. Thank you again." I could see the laugh he was trying to suppress showing in his eyes. I saluted her in farewell as we descended the steps and continued down the street.

"Well, she was something," I said imploringly. "One would've thought she'd never seen a man before."

My friend continued to laugh as he slipped his arm around my waist. "Don't be so judgmental, my dear Watson. Women have no defense against my stunning good looks and unparalleled genius."

I looked at my friend with an incredulous smile on my face; he pretended not to see me as he looked straight ahead, but he was smiling too. I rolled my eyes and fixed my eyes ahead as well, shaking my head at the humour of this man. He tightened his grip on my waist and pulled me closer to him as we walked. I was afraid of what passersby would think, but I couldn't bring myself to push him away. I pressed my body to him and my cheek against his shoulder and tried to convince myself it was for the sole purpose of keeping warm; maybe if I could convince myself, I could convince others as well.

After a few minutes of walking, we arrived again at the threshold of 687 Alfred Street. Holmes squeezed my waist and moved his hand to the back of my neck briefly, moving his thumb in circles to ruffle my hair before breaking contact and ringing the doorbell.

This time, Charles Dowding answered. He didn't need us to explain ourselves; he simply said "Yes, yes, come in," and closed the door behind us. We could hear a quiet pounding from somewhere within the house, and as we walked the halls, passed the young boy putting a portrait of his mother in a frame on the wall, driving the nail into just the right place. The portrait really did look lovely, and it struck a bit of sadness in me to think of this family, now without a mother.

Once in his study, he took a seat at his desk and pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. "Any news?"

My friend and I had remained standing. "Oh, yes, quite some news," said Sherlock. "We have solved your case."

"By God! That's wonderful!" exclaimed Charles. "Do tell me who the culprit is! He belongs in prison for the remainder of his time on Earth!"

"In due time, my friend. First, may I ask you to bring in your son?"

Charles looked slightly flabbergasted but obliged. "Maxwell! Where are you? Come into the study, please," he shouted. The pounding sound stopped and a moment later the boy appeared.

"Please, do sit down, Maxwell," said Holmes. I thought he was displaying a good deal of nerve, offering the boy a seat in his own home, but I kept quiet.

"Now," Holmes said; he had started to pace, and I knew an explanation was coming our way. "The wife and mother in this family was murdered, as was the girl Joanna at 236 Brewer Street and the officer at 27 Pembroke Lane." Maxwell and Charles looked on in sadness. "My dear friend Watson and myself have decided that all three were killed by two blows by a hammer of silver; this, you see, is a very strong, heavy hammer and could have easily killed a person, had the right amount of strength been behind it. Now. Our other evidence were the footprints that appeared on the doorsteps where each victim was found. I overlooked them at first, as at two of the houses they were barely recognizable in the midst of other footprints and at the third, were under the welcome mat. But I found them nonetheless, and have found the matching pair of shoes. I have also found the owner of the hammer, and therefore know our killer."

Charles could hardly contain himself. "Well, then, Mr. Holmes! Tell us who it is!"

Holmes looked right into the eyes of the man who had so recently lost his wife and said, "It is your son."


	4. Maxwell's Hammer and Sherlock's Hat

Charles' eyes lost their excitement, and where he has previously been standing he sat down slowly, seemingly not aware that he was doing it. He stared at Holmes for a moment, then looked to me for comfort. I stared coldly at him, because I knew my friend was right and I would offer no comfort.

"There must be a mistake." the man said quietly.

"Oh, no," said Holmes. "Believe me when I say there is no mistake here. Did you not notice that no objection has come from your son?"

Charles eyes darted to his son, who did his best to look upset, but he had been found out.

"I didn't do it," he said in a valiant attempt to clear his name. His eyes started gleaming with tears he would never let spill over. "How dare you accuse me of that? Of killing my own mother? How could you?" His voice had risen in emotion, but Holmes saw right through it.

"Do you not have Herring shoes?" he asked cooly.

"Wha – what the hell does that have to do with anything?" the boy asked. He really was quite the exceptional actor.

"Answer the question, Maxwell," I warned. "Do you have Herring shoes?"

"Yes, I do," he said hastily. "My mother bought them for me before she died."

"Ah," said Holmes. "Herring Shoes Co. sells quite covetable shoes, do they not? All are custom-made and no two shoes are alike." Maxwell's eyes widened in fear for just a moment before putting on the mask again.

"But who _cares?"_ he cried. "My mum is dead and all you can talk about are my shoes! There's a killer on the lose!"

"Oh, I care quite a lot. And the killer isn't on the lose, he's right here in this room, and I am trying to have a civil conversation with him. See, I admired your shoes when I first saw them. As you walked in front of us, I also caught a glimpse of the print on the bottom. A cross hash pattern with the words Herring Shoes Co. engraved on them. This pattern exactly matched that of the footprints at the scene of the murders and, as I said, no two Herring shoes are alike; even the prints are unique.

Then, we passed you as you were placing the portrait of your late mother on the wall. A beautiful portrait, if I may say. A worthy tribute to who I know was a beautiful woman. I also noticed the instrument with which you were hanging the nail on which to place the portrait, and it looked suspiciously like the one I knew the murders had been committed with. I knew this was no coincidence, you see, as you were in the possession of a silver hammer of the correct size and the shoes that matched the print at the scene of the crime. So, using logic, you may conclude that I am right and you, my friend, have been found out."

Maxwell had abandoned his facade of innocence and was now visibly turning redder with anger. His father was staring helplessly at him, and was also seemingly contracting a rage problem.

"Now, you see, we must go," said Holmes smugly, "for our business is done here and I myself would like a cup of coffee." At that moment, Inspector Lestrade entered the room with a few other officers, holding handcuffs and heading towards Maxwell. He wasn't going down without a fight, though, and tried his hardest to injure the officers; kicking, punching, and biting wherever he could, but it was no use as he was merely a 15-year-old boy and they were full grown and fully trained men. Within minutes he had been restrained and shoved into the back of the police cart and was on his way to the prison house.

As Holmes and I were leaving the room, I looked back and saw Charles Dowding with his head upon the desk in front of him. I couldn't kill the sympathy inside me and made my way to him, putting my arm around his shoulder.

"I am so sorry," I whispered to him. He didn't answer, nor did he look up, but I knew he was listening. "Your loss has been great. But take comfort in knowing that London is a safer place now." I patted his back consolingly and followed my friend out the door.

xXx

As anyone who is regularly caught up with murder stories knows, there is always one or two in your career that won't leave you alone, even after the criminal is found and put behind bars. This, our adventure of the silver hammer killer, was just that to me. All that day, it wouldn't leave my mind; I sat in thoughtful silence as I sat on the couch drinking tea next to my friend.

Holmes put down his newspaper and gave me a friendly slap on the leg. "What do you say, Watson? Shall we go get something to eat?"

I shook my head ever so slightly, groggy from all the deep thinking I'd been doing, and mumbled, "Yeah, sure, Holmes."

My friend noticed my manner and jumped on it. "Watson, what's the matter? Everything alright?"

I hesitated. "Well, Sherlock, I don't know. Those Charles and Maxwell fellows have been going through my head all day."

Sherlock looked at me for a moment. "Why?" He sounded like a small child, asking his mother why he couldn't have just one more cookie.

"That's it, though; I don't have a clue. I just can't stop thinking about that family. I can't imagine what Charles must be going through right now."

My friend scooted closer to me and put his arm around me, not for the first time that day. I found some comfort in his touch, but not much. "Oh, Watson." He rested his head on mine; I was looking at the ground in front of me, and he was positioned almost as if he were going to whisper in my ear. "You don't need to worry about it. It is done. If it would clear your conscience we can go talk to Mr. Dowding tomorrow, but for now, let it go."

I thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "You're right." I turned my face to his; he was a lot closer to me than I had anticipated. I knew he was about to lean in to kiss me, and for some reason I felt I couldn't do it at that point, so I squeezed his hand instead before standing to get my coat and money to head to our favorite restaurant. He stayed sitting for a moment, somewhat hurt, I think, before he got up and followed suit. He was taking his hat off the coat hanger when I surprised him by placing one hand on the back of his neck and pulling him in to kiss me. My other hand was outstretched, holding my coat. After he realized what was happening, he parked his hand on my cheek. After a minute we parted; I was glad it was somewhat dim in the room to hide the color in my cheeks, but I'm sure my friend could see it anyway. As we headed out the door, we passed Mrs. Hudson – she must've thought it strange, us coming out and my cheeks ever so slightly flushed as Holmes placed his hat on my head with a smile, but she said nothing.


End file.
